


O Captain, My Captain

by oxymoronic



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Early Work, M/M, Plot What Plot, Porn, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/pseuds/oxymoronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twice in as many nights. He could tell Jim was going to be hard work. (... seriously, I got nothing. It's just porn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Captain, My Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Originally at my LJ [here](http://oxymoronic.livejournal.com/51629.html). Thanks go to [princessezzy](http://princessezzy.livejournal.com/) and [credulesque](http://credulesque.livejournal.com/), the latter of which also gets credit for _he's a doctor, not a gymnast_.

 

 

There’s no excuse, not really – not other than he’s divorced and Jim is perpetually up for it.

 

 

The first time, Jim’s straddled above him and writhing, arms trembling either side of McCoy’s waist. Jim’s hands have torn two huge holes in his sheets and he is going to kick his _ass_ for that later on, but at the moment aforementioned ass is slowly sinking and stretching around his cock and he’s propped back on his elbows, just watching it happen. Jim’s thighs _thunk_ into his stomach and his head falls back, rolling absurdly, his hips twitching arrhythmic, teasing slides across McCoy’s stomach. Jim’s head falls forwards and his eyes are blown and _that’s_ when it hits him and McCoy whines, deep in his throat, shoving his hips brutally into the air, into Jim, who, naturally, smirks, rolls his hips side to side and stretches impossibly further around McCoy’s cock.

The second rock to the right his cock drags across Jim’s sweet spot and Jim shudders, his shoulders shaking, frozen as his hips force him down _hard_ onto that point. His eyes are wide and staring at McCoy’s chest, totally glazed, lost inside his own pretty little head and McCoy scowls. He thinks it’s a little rude that Jim can’t even concentrate on them fucking. He can understand a blank expression at, maybe, medical jargon, angry lectures or in class, but he’d previously thought that Jim only ever concentrated during sex. Apparently, even this isn’t the case.

He’s a little irritated by this fact. He reaches forwards, grabs hold of Jim’s hips and shoves upwards, arches his spine, and _holy fuck_ , Jim gasps, eyelids fluttering, and McCoy finds himself shouting, profanities tumbling precariously from his lips as his fingers clench spasms on Jim’s hipbones and he thinks it’s ironic that he always tells Jim off for swearing, but to be fair he couldn’t help it, ‘cause he doesn’t know if he scraped over Jim’s sweet spot or something but he’d never been _that_ tight before. When Jim’s head lolls forwards again his eyes are sososo blue and trained right onto him, like he’s the only fucking thing in the universe, and it sets off a hot, bubbly happiness in his chest.

Jim cautiously twitches his hips forwards again, locking his eyes on McCoy’s, feeling around with oddly timed pushes, twisting and locking his spine till McCoy’s cock rubs along his prostate again. Jim cries out raggedly, slamming his hips down, his whole body shuddering, the fold of sheet clenched in either fist letting out angry shrieks as they’re torn clean from their counterpart, Jim’s arms bulging and straining with the exertion. He’s gasping, his eyes locked on the rip twining up near McCoy’s head, and McCoy sits up, shuffles Jim’s legs so they’re wrapped around his waist, pushes his hand onto Jim’s back and spreads it across the bottom of Jim’s spine. He fucks up into Jim again and Jim’s back arches as he screams, fingers scrabbling on McCoy’s arm, and McCoy likes to think he feels his cock pushing and writhing inside Jim’s body with the palm splayed across the bottom of Jim’s back. McCoy grips onto Jim’s shoulders for the sake of balance, and Jim’s rutting his cock against McCoy’s stomach, pressing his ass against McCoy’s cock. Jim mouths incoherently at McCoy’s temple, hot, wet breath rasping over McCoy’s ear in hitching gasps and he finds himself shuddering, pressing closer into Jim, locking his fingers harder into Jim’s shoulders.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, but Jim’s past the point of speaking, and simply stares at him dumbly, mouth slack, eyes sharp and clear and uncomprehending. He shudders again, dropping his forehead onto Jim’s shoulder, unnaturally burning-hot. Jim tilts his head to one side, shimmies his hips forwards and backwards one more time and then he cries out, wrapping his arms clingingly across McCoy’s shoulders as his spine locks. McCoy’s head is shoved into Jim’s chest so he can’t see the most beautiful sight in the world when Jim comes but he can _smell_ it, harsh and acrid, and he thinks some might have even splattered onto his tongue, mouth hanging open and panting with the effort of not coming with Jim’s ass clenching sporadically around his cock. He can _feel_ it, too, sticky spurts across his abdomen, making his stomach hot and slick as Jim ruts and shudders against him, riding out the aftershocks. It’s Jim’s blown-out look when his face falls forwards and regards McCoy again for what looks, in his eyes, like the first time, eyes still sex-blown, face slack and, well, fucked to shit, that has him coming, gripping onto Jim’s hips and groaning, pushing his hips up and coming into that tight, hot, _impossibly_ gorgeous ass.

 

 

McCoy finds himself extraordinarily calm as he steps onto the bridge, but his fidgeting fingers betray him, nails scraping under nails and worrying the skin on the back of his hand. Then he remembers he had those fingers up Jim’s ass last night, and he flushes slightly and lets them drop beside him, just as the doors slide open in front of him.

It’s fucking sod’s law he’s up here, anyway. It’s a one in a billion chance he even spends time on the bridge nowadays – Jim’s reckless captaincy has ensured his medical bay’s full more often than not, though, to be fair, the majority of the time Jim himself is sprawled out and bleeding on a medibed. Jim’s never liked making his job easy, and responsibility isn’t about to change that.

He suddenly feels the familiar fear of wondering just how bad it is _this_ time, and it means his face looks a little lost when he exits the elevator. He’s a doctor, though, not a fucking psychiatrist, and he can’t fix Jim this time. Not without bending and fucking him healthily over the comms consoles and something suggested that he wouldn’t really appreciate that one little bit.

There’s some incompatible RNA strain from their latest probe that Spock can’t figure out, and, as he quietly put it, was hoping to make the most of McCoy’s “medical expertise” in the area. He isn’t about to tell him that he’d failed Basic Genetics – though, to be fair, it was mainly to do with the fact Jim had taken him out drinking the night before the exam.

Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim.

For fuck’s _sake_.

Spock has it up on a console on the far left, and beckons him over with a nod when he enters. He’s twisting the shape on the screen, trying to get it into a dimension he understands, and McCoy sighs. He can slink around the back of the captain’s chair easy enough but it’s not so close to the elevators that Jim won’t see him when he gets there. He shakes his head. Best to make the most of a bad lot. Spock nods at McCoy’s approach, and steps a little to the right of the screen to let him see. “I’ve been trying to find a coding sequence,” he says softly, “but it appears completely irrational.”

“Thank you,” McCoy says, his throat dry, and he splits his fingers on the screen, zooming in closer on the graphics’ construction. Spock hovers, watching over his shoulder, wanting to help but really just impeding his already-heady judgement until Uhura calls a soft command across the bridge and McCoy feels irrationally relieved. He’s wondering whether Jim’s even noticed that he’s entered. He shifts a little further to the right in Spock’s absence, just for better access, but in doing so his view of the captain’s chair goes from completely blocked to resting in the peripheral.

And Jim’s squirming.

His fingers falter on the way to the screen. It’s a fractionally small movement, and it happens every other heartbeat, but it’s happening, and he catches it in the very corner of his eye. Jim’ll speak softly to someone or other, and shift. They’ll speak back; he’ll shift again. He’ll reach down to press a switch and shift. Or, in the temporary lack of command, when they’re all wrapped up in their own little jobs and he’s just staring out of the vast screen in front of him at the raw face of space he’ll squirm a little again.

McCoy’s first reaction is guilt. Perhaps he shouldn’t have listened as readily to “oh please god fuck me now stop and _do it now_ ” and spent a little longer, but no, that was an impossibility. Still, Jim’s quite obviously in pain, and he can’t even go and ask for some fucking meds because _McCoy is the fucking doctor_.

Yeah, that’s the first reaction.

But he’s also finding it fucking _hot_.

“Doctor McCoy,” and holy fuck, that’s Jim’s voice, “report.”

“Captain,” he says easily as he turns on his heel, but he has to cough to clear his throat when he’s facing the scrutiny of those eyes. And Jim squirms again. “There’s insufficient data here to fully analyse the pattern. Permission to transfer these down to the species’ databases in the med bay?”

“Permission granted,” Jim says, and _squirms again_ , and McCoy’s out of there like the fucking wind.

 

 

Jim’s sat waiting for him in his quarters, cross-legged in the middle of his bed. His head’s tilted to one side but his face is impassive, and he watches McCoy walk over to the dressing-table, unclip and drop loose the badge, the other medical trinkets, with soft plastic noises. He’s expecting Jim to say something – “Good day at the office, dear?” is a current favourite – but Jim says nothing at all. It’s completely unnerving. McCoy spins and rests himself against the table, looking over at Jim on the bed. He could be sitting there quietly to be a pain in the ass or he could be sat there quietly _because_ of the pain in his ass. McCoy sighs to himself. “Are you alright?” he queries softly. Jim shifts a little after the query. Even though Jim sitting on his bed blinking lazily is tilting him towards the _ohfuckthat’shot_ side of things, he’s still feeling a little guilty.

Jim arches an eyebrow. “What an incomprehensible display of emotion.” Jim’s lips stumble around the long word, and it amuses McCoy to see his forehead crease in a subconscious flash of concentration.

“I am a doctor, you ass.”

“You’re always a bastard to me.” McCoy toes off his shoes, and is glad to see Jim’s done the decency of removing his too because he’s already wrecked one of his bedsheets and he only gets two a term. It’s going to be a nightmare getting them washed. It’s meant to be one on while the other washes, but he’s reduced to the single, and he _does_ not want to explain to laundry why he needs another.

Maybe he could borrow Jim’s, now he’s –

“That’s because I hate you,” he says easily, as he watches Jim shift a little on the bed in the corner of his eye.

Jim laughs, swings his legs off the bed and saunters a little closer. “You know,” he murmurs, looking up through his eyelashes like a goddamn whore, “I _do_ outrank you.”

“So that’s what the smell is.” It’s an old joke. At the Academy, it’d been the other way round. Since Jim’s _promotion_ , McCoy has severely delighted in turning it on its head. Jim’s lips do quirk, still, right up in the corner, and it makes his nose wrinkle. Just a little. _Damn it, stop staring at his face_.

“I should report you. For procedural incompetence. I am your commanding officer.”

“Oh, authority in the bedroom, Jim? You kinky bastard.”

Jim’s eyes sparkle. “Cockslut,” he corrects quietly, leaning in closer to murmur it, lips parting obscenely around the word.

McCoy shudders and his fingers press insistently on Jim’s back, but he doesn’t miss the way Jim winces at the pressure. “Alright, then,” he sighs, and Jim looks up. “But you’re prepping me, even if I don’t spend all day lounging on my ass.” He delights in Jim’s shudder – almost unnoticeable – and smirks, flooding his face with Jim’s trademark innocence, as Jim’s face alights with the faintest flush and his lips slacken slightly into a pant.

“You don’t have to – ”

“Doctor’s orders,” McCoy whispers, and kisses him.

Jim’s already rutting like a whore against his thigh, he’s pathetic and needy and desperate and it’s wonderful. He can’t quite seem to decide whether he prefers McCoy’s mouth to his neck; he dwells on the latter, nipping and sucking, biting the pressure point, before sliding up stickily to the former and clamping onto his lips, sucking like the devil with sparkling eyes. Typically, McCoy ends up doing all the undressing, but Jim’s looking at him so endearingly it’s almost worth it. It’s a struggle and a squabble to even get over to the bed, and he shoves Jim on it, separating them just to finally remove the last remnants of his uniform. He glances over at the pile the yellow and blue makes and thinks this would perhaps make the worst advert for Starfleet ever.

Then he looks at Jim, naked on his bed, and smiles and thinks otherwise.

Jim’s fluttering his eyelashes ridiculously – it’s like he’s decided it gets McCoy off, and has decided to exploit it to its full worth. Okay, it is a little awesome, but it also makes Jim look pretentious and utterly confident. McCoy smiles vindictively as he slides down onto the bed, Jim lounging lazily against the headboard, one arm resting cockily on his knee, smirking in the tiniest corner of his mouth. “You know,” McCoy murmurs, and kisses Jim before continuing, “you’re not half as good looking as you think you are.”

McCoy moans as Jim bites at his neck and grabs at his cock, his spine arcing closer into Jim’s body. “Now that would suggest you had a pretty poor sense of judgement, wouldn’t it?” Jim murmurs, and it’s porno-erotic, all wet and breathy and whispered in his ear.

It shuts Jim up when McCoy returns his earlier favour, reaching down between Jim’s legs, or to the extent where Jim’s reduced to muttering blathered profanities in several languages and interspersing them with variations of McCoy’s name. He laughs at one of them, tugs hard on Jim’s cock. “Don’t call me Leonard in bed,” he murmurs, and bites Jim’s ear. “My _mother_ calls me Leonard.” Jim looks at him blankly, too fucked-out to reply, and McCoy sighs. He doesn’t really know how Jim’s supposed to fuck him when he can’t even think straight when there’s a _hand_ on his cock, and he’s starting to suspect he’s just going to have to push Jim back onto the bed and fucking do it all himself.

Jim shows a little intuition and a little more fight training when he grabs hold of McCoy’s shoulders and McCoy’s on his back, head still reeling from being smacked into the headboard, and he hurriedly pulls into a ball at the sight of Jim crawling across at him, smiling vindictively. “Spock taught me that,” he breathes wetly into his ear, and McCoy shudders.

“Do _not_ fill me with thoughts about what you do in your training time,” he murmurs, and moans as Jim nips hard on his bottom lip again. Jim runs an awkward finger down his spine, rests at the small of his back. His eyes flicker up to McCoy’s and lock there a moment. McCoy shunts his hips back a little, tilts his head, does he have to spell it out?

Clearly not. Jim pushes the first slick finger inside his ass and McCoy groans, his head rolling back. As much as he can boast experience it never tends to be this way round – he’s not pretty enough to bottom, and not, normally, masochistic enough to try it. Jim’s different. He always has been. Still, it’s been a couple of years, and it’s showing on Jim’s face; “Jesus,” he whispers, “you’re – _hmmm_ , tight – ”

“No shit,” McCoy grunts – the second’s gone in, and Jim’s crooking them mercilessly, probing around for his sweet spot. Truth be told, McCoy’s almost forgotten where it is himself, and he tries shunting around with his hips, guiding Jim’s fingers inside him. The thought makes him lose focus for a moment; _Jim’s fingers inside him_ , and then Jim finds it and presses _hard_ and holy _fuck_ he’d forgotten just how good that felt. Jim presses so mercilessly his vision’s blurring, Jim’s sparkly eyes dancing all over the place in his mind. “Shit, Jim, _don’t_ – ” he rasps, but who is he kidding? It’s Jim, of course he will, especially if McCoy tells him not to. Jim presses hard, again, smiling vindictively, and McCoy feels the moan ripped out of his throat, his spine arcing off the bed. He’s so close, and Jim’s not even getting started.

“ _Mmm_ , you’re gorgeous,” Jim breathes in his ear, and McCoy rolls his eyes.

“You always had a need to state the obvious,” he grunts out, and moans as Jim worms in a third finger inside and McCoy bucks, yet again, reflexes taking control of his body as he ruts helplessly against Jim’s stomach. It’s needy and a little pathetic but he’s past his initial inhibitions. Besides, he was doing this to Jim only the night before – it was only fair play. Twice in as many nights. He could tell Jim was going to be hard work.

Pardon the pun.

Jim’s moved back a bit, leaving McCoy pressed and flushed against the headboard, legs sprawled, and missing his fingers inside his ass already, _you hussy_. He’s looking at him, his head tilted to one side, which always means he’s thinking, which is never a good idea. “You think too much,” McCoy murmurs.

Jim smiles. “I also fuck too much.”

McCoy grins. “As a doctor, I’d agree, but as,” he falters; he hates nouns, and none of them seem to apply anymore to their situation anyway, “the one being fucked,” he settles on, “I’d say you don’t do it enough.” He flinches a little as Jim creeps forwards, the ball of his hand resting on McCoy’s shin, sliding it forwards and outwards. He realises he must look a little terrified when Jim settles between his legs, his head tilted, and winces as Jim pushes inside.

Jim’s frozen on top of him, and McCoy gently opens his eyelids, staring up at Jim in wonder. He’s only in an inch or so, and he’s staring at McCoy, looking a little frightened. “ _Jesus_ , Bones, fucking _relax_.” His breath hitches on every other word, and he’s panting and trembling to keep in control. “You don’t have to act like this is some chore.”

The truth is McCoy’s terrified out of his fucking mind, but he’s not about to admit this. He has this _thing_ about pain – he’s terrified of it, which is ironic, seeing as he’s a doctor, but on other people pain seems like such a distant thing. It’s an observation. His brain’s jumped to the conclusion that this is going to hurt and it’s freaking the fuck out of him. “It’s not a chore,” he insists breathlessly. Jim leans forwards and kisses him sweetly, slipping inside another half inch or so, and McCoy gasps, his eyes rolling back.

“I’m doing this,” Jim murmurs, “now.” He goes in deeper than he’d expected, fucks inside him further, slides and splits open his spine, and it just keeps on going. It’s fucking _forever_ before Jim stops moving, his eyes listlessly unfocused on the wall behind the headboard. It’s nonsensical to say he didn’t know how far it would go because it’s not like he’s never done this before, but still, it’s fresh and sharp and thrumming through his body. He’s awkwardly pressed up against Jim, his legs wrapped around his chest near shoulder-height, and he wants to reach up and kiss him but he’s a doctor, not a gymnast. He can feel Jim’s whole body shuddering from the effort of not coming, and though McCoy can’t claim on experience – Jim’s done more screwing in the past five years than McCoy has in twice that – he has the slightest advantage of age, in that he’s not so ready to jump ship yet, whereas Jim’s frozen still because the slightest movement could set him off. He clenches his thighs, just experimentally, and the advantage of age is stripped when he _feels_ Jim’s cock inside him, every fucking inch of it solid and strong, and he chokes on a moan, looking at Jim and understands the total abandon in his eyes.

It’s always surprised McCoy how quickly sex goes after the best bit’s begun. Sometimes, he’s a little disappointed, but most of the time he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

Jim’s breathing catches as he shuffles backwards a little, if only to shunt forwards again with greater force, and McCoy groans, deep and through his chest. Jim’s pattering little kisses along his collarbone as he presses, in and out, rhythm fucked to hell by the way McCoy keeps sporadically clenching and shuddering around him. Jim slams hard along his prostate and he blacks out for a second, feeling his whole body just spring out of his control. McCoy’s head is totally lolled back and he hates it, he can’t see Jim, but his spine’s turned to jelly and he can’t even lift his head to look at him anymore. Jim leans in and locks the fingers of one hand around his neck, pulls him into for a kiss that’s more painful and sloppy than anything because Jim’s lost most of his few mental functions since his cock entered McCoy’s ass and, McCoy decides, he can forgive him for that. The other hand’s drifting sporadically from McCoy’s cock to brushing softly across his stomach, and McCoy’s caught up in the choices of hard sex and soft touches.

Jim’s hardly even breathing anymore, they’re just grunts and pants and McCoy thinks that can hardly be healthy, but it’s not like he can say anything; his mouth’s slack and wide and useless since the effort required to close it was lost a _very_ long time ago. Jim’s shuddering, eyes wide but totally blown, staring at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Then his mouth springs open even further and he takes in a rush of breath and he’s arching up, fingers scrabbling at McCoy’s drenched back with his breath too caught up to scream and McCoy can _feel_ him coming in his ass, dripping stickily down his legs and smearing messily into his sheets as Jim’s hips shove unstoppably, but it’s _searing_ hot, fires-of-Hell hot. McCoy’s perfectly capable of moaning and he does so, lasciviously, and he feels his own come spurt and get trapped between their bodies, slick and hot as he pushes madly into the air, fingers clawing and ripping into Jim’s hair as he arcs up and he blacks out.

When he opens his eyes again Jim’s out of him, leaving a wet, sticky mess between his legs and the softest sense of burning along his spine. It’ll get worse in the morning – he might even have to limp, which’ll be embarrassing to say the least, but if the prickling on his neck is anything to go by it’s not going to be that easy to hide he’s just been fucked anyway. Besides, he’s the doctor, he can always prescribe more meds. He lets his eyes slide shut in a smile for a moment. He’s good at that.

Jim presses a hot kiss on his forehead; he’d apparently dozed off for a bit, but he’s too tired to remember if he even dreamt. The bed’s soft, and warm, and the stickiness can be remedied by Jim’s hot body beside him. “Sorry I ruined your sheets,” Jim murmurs, and he’s grinning.

“No, you’re not,” McCoy replies, hoarsely. His voice is clammy and breaking, and he’s still trembling slightly.

Jim shrugs. “You got me.” Part of McCoy’s wondering how Jim can have the energy to talk, but something about his vague knowledge of Jim’s past is reminding him that Jim’s not always been the one-fuck-a-night kind of guy. He’s falling asleep slowly on the pillow, trying and failing to stay awake. Jim’s not pressing him to, and he drifts off to the soft sensation of Jim’s fingers stroking the small of his back.


End file.
